


If I Were a Bee Keeper

by Kayndred



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas is insane, Dean has feels, I really just have feels about things, M/M, Sam is sympathetic, Sort-of cannon compliant, but... not, if the series ends with season seven mayhap, lots of rambling, partially canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/Kayndred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is honest to a fault. Except, of course, when he's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> So I caught up with Supernatural again (I have a tendency to get a few weeks behind), and the very first thing I thought about during the episode was Sam and Cas bonding over Cas' insanity and it just being all sorts of cute. 
> 
> And then there was this. :]
> 
> So yeah?

Cas is honest to a fault.

Except, of course, when he's not.

He tells Sam that he can't see Lucifer anymore, that the 'after taste' had faded ( _with his mind with his mind! all the choirs say, all the choirs say..._ ), that there really isn't anything wrong. And there isn't, really, seeing all hearing all knowing all aside. ( _He wonders if this is what God is like - if God can tell him what it's like to see the path and be lost, to understand and be ignorant_ ) He can see the weave of the universe in the things no one looks at - or the things no one sees - or the things no one dares to see. He can see the path of a bumble bee the moment it takes flight, around and around and around, lazy bubbling swooping lines. ( _He can see the lines in the sand that have been crossed out or crossed over, the lines people have drawn around themselves, the lines that draw one person to another, the lines that break them apart._ ) Most of him - the big parts, the great grand greedy dying parts - thinks and sees and knows, and that's all, that's everything, the long and short of it. He thinks and sees and knows, but opinions are lost in translation, taken by the wind, away away away. Or, they almost are - he won't fight. He won't ever, never again. He can't - because the greedy human hopeful helpful practical part of him swims under his skin, flat and benign and thin, for the moment, like the wavering image of a shark at sea, the shadow of a condor on the open plane. It floats and it sits and it taunts him, sometimes, in the night, when his vessel should be sleeping but he can't so it sits there and tells him tales of power and greatness and conquering. 

This is how he knows Lucifer isn't gone.

This is what he does not tell Sam Winchester.

 

Sam isn't surprised when Cas visits, after everything is done.

It's a sad thought, but he knows the angel doesn't have very many places to go to where people won't attempt to commit him, or taunt him, or hurt him. 

Sam thinks of him sometimes as a very intelligent, very tired, very hopeful dog. He doesn't think it to be mean - never, ever, not to Cas - but it's just about as close to the truth as he can rationalize, after everything he's said and done and seen. It's easier to think about than 'fallen angel who saved my sanity and attempted to take over the world but was on our side the entire time even though we got snarky and he sort of left us in the dust'. A lot of things are easier to think about than that. 

So it doesn't surprise him much when Cas makes it a regularity to find them, wherever they are, and visit for days or weeks on end. He stays, he sleeps, he eats (but he doesn't really have to? Sam still doesn't get it entirely), he plays board games and watches cartoon reruns and stupid movies and celebrates with them, if theres a holiday. He gets better at cooking and gift giving and understanding that, no, you do not just teleport in on someone when they are in the shower, it's just not done. 

He gets better and he gets worse, and that's the long and the short of it all in one. 

He gets better, but they aren't trying to fix him. Does that make it worse? 

Sam feels like that makes it worse. 

So when Cas appears to him on quiet afternoon in their boonie-cabin on the skirt of the Montana-Canada state line, Sam really doesn't think anything of it. Dean is asleep, calm for once even though anxiety and nervousness still runs rampant through them (they've been part of what was making or breaking the world for too long for the feeling of anticipation to simply go away). He sprawls in an undignified heap on their ratty couch, flipping through ten tonnes of boring t.v. channels in his boxers and a wife-beater, because there's nothing to do and no one to see. He's just flipped to some sort of cake show (Top Chef? he can't be sure), when the familial sound of rustling paper greets him. He rolls his head back and, yes, there is Cas, standing just behind the couch and faintly damp. Wherever he was, it had probably started raining before he remembered to get out of the cold.

Sam doesn't say anything, and neither does Cas, although the angel does move around to the front of the couch, casually shucking his trench coat on a chair as he goes. His weight forces the couch to shift, moving Sam, before he falls onto his side with his head on the younger Winchester's thigh. He shifts, settles, adjusts his limbs into something comfortable, and then stills, eyes fixed on the panicked men and women bustling about on the screen. They don't seem to have enough time left to do what they need to do.

Sam remembers what that feels like. The smile that curls the corner of his mouth doesn't reach his eyes. 

But no one's looking. 

He absently reaches down to card his fingers through the other man's hair, long, sure strokes that start and end with a scratch of his nails against the skin of Cas' scalp. The angel shifts, sighs, settles into the touch. Three of his fingers twist into the hem of Sam's boxers. Sam sighs, scratches a patch of stubble with his other hand, and turns his gaze back toward the t.v. 

Someone's getting voted off today, and he wants to know who because it feels like something to do.

It's awkward being content. 

 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are scars all over him now, and it's hard to feel anything when he looks at them.

There are scars all over him now, and it's hard to feel anything when he looks at them.

It's not like they don't evoke memories ( _they do, they do, fuck everything, they do_ ), it's more that they don't dredge up... feelings. Sam doesn't feel anything when he looks at the twist of flesh that marks his right shoulder, or the thread-thin diagonal line that runs from armpit to groin. He looks at them and sees kills, hunts, missions. He looks at them and sees someone else, someone who was part of a world that had to fight.

Someone that died, again and again and again, for a world and several planes of existence that never really cared.

That gets him sometimes too - the not caring. The fact that humanity or angels or demons could say jump, and he wouldn't even ask how high, he'd just do it. Again and again and again, until he got it right. Until they said stop. Until someone said enough. 

He looks back on Sam Winchester of six years ago ( _four years ago, two years ago, five months ago_ ) with something like fond resignation. He looks back on himself, looks at all his old hopes and dreams and wants, and thinks, 'Well.' And that's it, really and truly. That's it and it's done, and maybe the most he can get out of himself is a quick rise of irrational anger, but so what? So. What. Sam Winchester The Boy Who Saved The World died when the world died, before they turned it back, before he played stone witness to the several types of apocalypse common in all religions in the span of a week. 

Sam looks back on That Time and sees only scars, feels only nothing.

 

Sam Winchester has secrets. Lots of them.

And not little ones, either - well, he has them, but in the long run, no one will hate him or kill him if he admits to watching almost every episode of _Dexter_ four times in one summer, or that he has a special fondness for black cats. No one will care, and in the end it's the secrets that matter that Sam has to hold close to his chest and never, ever let go.

Everyone sort of assumed Sam lost his powers after being summoned back from the Pit in halves. He'd speculated that the powers had been attached to his soul somehow, so that his Robo-cop self couldn't use them because they weren't there. Contrary to popular belief, though, they didn't just vanish.

No, Sam's powers stayed with him, even through the trials of the Pit, and were stronger for it. 

And it's not like he uses them all the time or anything, really. Just... when no one's around. Which kindof happens to be a lot of the time, but really. Really. He doesn't even need demon blood anymore and moving stuff just by thinking about it is so... so. ( _The the void in his chest where his soul is supposed to be [where it is now, but it hurts to believe], where Stanford used to be, where family and love and comfort used to be - it fills up, closes itself a little more each time he uses his powers. He feels whole, wanted, loved, like maybe God is finally, finally looking at him._

_Like maybe he's worth something to someone unrelated to him._

_Like maybe someone cares._ )

 

Cas finds Sam floating objects above his head on a Tuesday.

Accordingly, he does not flip his metaphorical shit, for he has none. 

Instead, after appearing in the kitchen area of the boys residence ( _not just last week they watched four hours of Top Chef on that couch, and Cas can still feel Sam's fingers scritch-scratching at his scalp_ ), he stays silent and watches, the Lucifer-human part of him perking up and taking notice. 

The boy is different this time around, is the first thing that the still somewhat sane chunk of Cas' mind notes. There is no aggressive dissonance about his person, no dark blemish marring his spiritual wavelengths. Nothing. Just a slowly closing gap in his psyche, a hole of _wantneedrememberfreedom_ that Castiel can understand. He has something similar now, after all, but it is so much more vast and consuming and terrifying in the most abject ways that, often, he doesn't even realize he's afraid. ( _There's nothing to fear when you see everything - anything is fearsome when you see everything._ )

So he watched, curious and quiet, as several bits of change and pair of glitter pens float in lazy patterns above the couch, twisting and spinning in their orbits as they go. 

A tiny solar system. ( _He saw the dawn of the sun and the scattering of the planets and nothing will ever take that from him, nothing, but this is so much less and so much more and he can't, he just can't. When was it okay for him to get attached?_ )

"Sam." He says, and the objects give an abrupt jerk before they clatter to the ground and inbetween the couch cushions, and he can still see them, their paths and trajectories etched in the air, but it's different. 

He crosses the small space between the middle of the kitchen and the back of the couch with cautious steps, wary of what he will find when he gazes over the back of the sofa.

But it's just Sam there, startled and scared and a little apprehensive, but curious too, like he wants to know what Cas has to say even if it hurts him. ( _Cas has hurt a lot of people, Sam and Dean Winchester especially, and is amuses and terrifies him that they still want him around, even though he can feel their frustration at being inactive, at him and his inability to understand, at everything._ )

"Do it again." Is what he says, and he gets a sort of bemused pleasure out of watching the young man's eyes widen, the bob of his Adams' apple, the slow upward curl of his lips that brings out his dimples. Cas moves around the couch to sit with his back pressed against the couch's cushion bed, his head by Sam's knees. 

For the next hour and a half, all he does it watch Sam float knickknacks around the room.

( _In the quiet recesses of his heart, where Castiel the Angel and Castiel the God and Castiel Who Helps the Winchesters all turn into one being, he can feel his own mental void close up. Just a little bit._ )


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Dean an inordanantly long time to see it, so when he does, of course, he's kindof ticked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Bottomfeeder](../../../users/Bottomfeeder/pseuds/Bottomfeeder) for helping me tweak the first to chapters, as I obviously do not watch enough t.v >.>
> 
> And now, Deanfeels.

It takes Dean an inordinately long time to see it, so when he does, of course, he's kindof ticked. 

Just a little. 

It's not like they're crazy blatant about it or anything, because, please, even Sam the Sasquatch and Cas the Witless Wonder have some form of tact ( _Cas considerably less so, but, well. Cas._ ) But they still are, in that weird way that people are when they sorta-kinda- _maybe_ -not-really-no-probably- _totally_ have something going on. That involves the other person. And feelings. And feelings related to that other person. Which, generally, Dean tends to stay away from, because, hello, feelings equals problems equals hurt feelings. So he normally just nips it in the bud and makes sure that feelings don't factor into it, because he doesn't like to hurt peoples feelings ( _as a general rule, but not a concrete one, because please. People need to lighten up, like, a lot_ ), and he doesn't like his feelings hurt.

Therein, avoid the feelings, and all is well. 

Sam and Cas don't seem to adhere to the same sort of ideas. 

 

It's sortof an accident, the first time he sees them being all... feeling-y. And it's not like they were doing anything super awkward either, so he doesn't really get why his stomach does the tango every time he thinks about it for more than three seconds, or why he couldn't exactly look either of them in the eye for a couple hours after ( _some mean embarrassing part of him thinks about it like catching his parents in the act, but that's way weird and never, ever to be contemplated or thought about or what have you, ever, thanks, brainbleach time, goodbye_ ). 

He's taken to roaming around outside a lot, mostly because there isn't a whole bunch to do way out in the boonies except watch squirrels and chop firewood, which leaves Sam alone in the house with four variations of the cooking channel and several hours worth of tella novellas, and sometimes Cas. And between Sam and the t.v, sleeping, and outside, nature seems like the best bet most of the time. There are only so many days one can wake up and go right back to sleep before they start to smell. 

So he's coming back in from being outside, right, because it's kinda nippy and he should probably put on a jacket, or get a thermos and some soup or something, but that's a bit nature-hike-y and yeah, anyway - he's coming back in after a couple hours of just walking around, so he's sort of quiet and zen about everything, and it's not like any of the doors in the house squeak, so the getting inside is quiet too. He takes the side door, the awkward on that leads into the hall where the bathroom and the linen closets are, because his favorite jacket is hanging on the pegs across from the bathroom and he wants it. He's just snagged it off its hook and slipped it on when he sees a flicker out of the corner of his eye. Nothing big, nothing magical, just a shifting of light in a quiet area ( _he has enough of his hunter instincts left over to think danger first t.v second, and his hands twitch like he wants to reach for a gun he doesn't need but still has_ ). 

It's just light from the t.v changing, probably from one commercial to the next or something, he can't see the screen from his angle, but that's not what stops him cold, surprised and a little hurt ( _he won't analyze it later - he doesn't like introspection and he knows it_ ), mostly hidden from the shadow cast by the wall.

It's who he sees sitting on the couch, quiet and zen and... _feely_. 

At first glance he hooks on Cas, who isn't actually sitting on the couch but in front of it, with his back against the seatbed and the sides of the cushions. He's still in his mental hospital scrubs and his trench coat - which is weird, but they're still clean, so there hasn't been a reason for him to change - legs crossed and hands on the carpet, offering support he doesn't need. He's got a look in his eye like he's seriously interested in whatever's happening on the t.v, but he's relaxed, too, comfortable in his position and in his skin. Content, maybe. 

Sam he sees next, just a second after seeing Cas - maybe because Sam is always in and about the cabin, maybe because it's Sam, he doesn't know, but he just doesn't see him first, despite the obvious differences in the area each of the other men covers. He's sitting upright on the couch for once, rather than sprawled over it like some sort of ridiculously tall throw rug, dressed in weekend casual - sweatpants, fuzzy socks, baggy hoody ( _Dean speculates later about why the heater isn't on inside, but really can't come up with an answer. Maybe Sam just likes layers now_ ). He's got his legs spread casually, feet planted flat on the floor, watching the program with considerably less interest than Cas, but enough to let Dean know he's paying attention to it.

His legs bracket Cas like bookends, the sides of Sam's calves just barely brushing Cas' arms ( _from shoulder to elbow, neat, clean lines_ ), and Dean can see that one of Cas' hands is close enough to touch the fuzzy crap on Sam's socks, so it's safe to assume that the other is too. 

Sam's fingers are in Cas' hair, combing through it in long strokes, scratching here and there, twirling one short lock and smoothing another. 

It's so casual, so apparently common place, that Dean's heart gives a little hiccup and his stomach a little twist, and then he's back outside, jacket on, slightly colder than before.

 

It's weird being shocked.

He doesn't know why he's not used to it yet.

 


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't know where it comes from, but it stills his body and his mind and his soul - strikes it down and pins it to the earth. Michael, avenging.

_There is stiffness in his joints, like frozen fire, like lightning put on hold._

_He doesn't know where it comes from, but it stills his body and his mind and his soul - strikes it down and pins it to the earth. Michael, avenging._

 

It's the beginning of a storm ( _where he sits in the eye_ ).

 

He doesn't know what's up, not really, but he knows that something has made the house uncomfortable. Something thick lurks in the corners, clings to the shade, makes him itch and jump at the slightest of sounds. His powers haven't extended too far into telepathy or empathy yet - they look like their getting there though, and it's scary-amazing - but he can feel it. A metaphorical cloud hovers over and around the house, oppressive and dark. For a long time ( _two and a half weeks of feeling both depressed and paranoid, convinced that something big is going down_ ) he doesn't understand it, doesn't want to, just throws up mental blocks and pushes it out and away from him.

He wants to smack himself when he realizes that the tumult of feelings belongs to, of all people, Dean. Who sits across from him at breakfast and laughs at his early morning grumpiness, who irons his shirts in the extra bedroom and has learned the secret of hanging their clean cloths in the mud room with the heaters to dry.

Dean, who won't look him in the eye, and hasn't given him a brotherly touch in roughly the same time.

Dean, who avoids him.

He buries his head in the couch cushions and bites the inside of his mouth. When did he get so blind to his brother that he could overlook such an obvious change? When did he lose that connection with the only person who he knew as well ( _if not better, but that was debatable now, wasn't it?_ ) as himself.

There are objects in the room that are vibrating, jumping on shelves or shaking on the walls, and he doesn't care.

It feels like a piece of himself is broken.

( _But that's nothing new._ )

 

Cas finds Sam holed up in a linen closet, wrapped in a blanket and several layers of clothing, asleep.

He crouches down to roughly eye level with the sleeping man, and observes him, curious and content in one.

The only thing visible is his face, tilted back to rest where the two walls meet, a few strands of hair escaping out from what is best described as a blanket cocoon. His knees are pulled up against his chest, from what Cas can discern of his shape, and he has no idea where his arms are. It's a little worrying, finding him here - he'd only ever taken refuge in small spaces at the very beginning of their residency in the cabin, and even though Cas ( _and the choirs and the paths, but sometimes he's lucid and sometimes he's not_ ) had thought it was over, apparently it isn't.

He looks worn, too, gray and frayed around the edges, stretched too thin and worn too often.

Cas wants to reach out and touch him, fit inside his chest and wrap himself around Sam's heart, keep it safe.

He pulls a blanket off the top shelf and wraps himself up in the opposite corner instead.

He falls asleep to Sam's breathing.

 

Sam wakes up with a pressure against his right side and a crick in his neck. He's warm and covered from head to foot in something soft and thick, and for a moment he thinks heaven( _hell_ ), and sighs.

His eyes peal open and he shifts, the left side of his face pressed against a wall. He remembers coming into the closet, bundled up and tired. He remembers being pressed against the opposite side of the wall, too, the right side of his head supported by the wall. His head lolls to the side and his gaze is obscured by a mass of dark hair. He blinks blearily and scrunches his nose. What...

Cas.

The angel is pressed against his side, the blanket wrapped around him considerably thinner than the one encasing Sam. His shoulders twitch sporadically and his nose his pressed into Sam's side.

The younger Winchester sighs, thoughts too muzzy for any actual clarity, and unfurls his right arm. Through some creative maneuvering ( _as well as a bumped elbow and a tapped head_ ) he gets Cas wrapped up against his side, his own comforter around Cas' flimsier blanket.

With an arm around the man's shoulders, Sam descends back into sleep.

 

Dean finds them when he goes searching for towels.

He'd assumed that the mass of blankets on Sam's bed had hidden him (the guy had somewhere upward of eight, pansy), and that Cas was off gallivanting around doing whatever he did when he wasn't with them.

But no, there they are, wrapped up and pressed side to side like two peas in a pod.

Dean's knuckles are white as he grips the towel, the soft fabric contorting around his fingers.

He closes the door quietly and goes into the bathroom.

 

They don't even wake when he smashes the mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes? Yes, okay.  
> I'm thinking of writing more, but... what do you think? :]


End file.
